Stave 3: The Second of the Three
Spirits

Awaking in the middle of a
prodigiously tough snore, and sitting up in bed
to get his thoughts together, Scrooge had no
occasion to be told that the bell was again upon
the stroke of One. He felt that he was restored
to consciousness in the right nick of time, for
the especial purpose of holding a conference with
the second messenger dispatched to him through
Jacob Marley's intervention. But, finding that he
turned uncomfortably cold when he began to wonder
which of his curtains this new spectre would draw
back, he put them every one aside with his own
hands, and lying down again, established a sharp
look-out all round the bed. For, he wished to
challenge the Spirit on the moment of its
appearance, and did not wish to be taken by
surprise, and made nervous.

Now, being
prepared for almost anything, he was not by any
means prepared for nothing; and, consequently,
when the Bell struck One, and no shape appeared,
he was taken with a violent fit of trembling.
Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour
went by, yet nothing came. All this time, he lay
upon his bed, the very core and centre of a blaze
of ruddy light, which streamed upon it when the
clock proclaimed the hour; and which, being only
light, was more alarming than a dozen ghosts, as
he was powerless to make out what it meant. At
last, however, he began to think that the source
and secret of this ghostly light might be in the
adjoining room, from whence, on further tracing
it, it seemed to shine. This idea taking full
possession of his mind, he got up softly and
shuffled in his slippers to the door.

The moment
Scrooge's hand was on the lock, a strange voice
called him by his name, and bade him enter. He
obeyed.

It was his own
room. There was no doubt about that. But it had
undergone a surprising transformation. The walls
and ceiling were so hung with living green, that
it looked a perfect grove; from every part of
which, bright gleaming berries glistened. The
crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy
reflected back the light, as if so many little
mirrors had been scattered there; and such a
mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney, as that
dull petrifaction of a hearth had never known in
Scrooge's time, or Marley's, or for many and many
a winter season gone. Heaped up on the floor, to
form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game,
poultry, brawn, great joints of meat,
sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages,
mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters,
red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy
oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes,
and seething bowls of punch, that made the
chamber dim with their delicious steam. In easy
state upon this couch, there sat a jolly Giant,
glorious to see, who bore a glowing torch, in
shape not unlike Plenty's horn, and held it up,
high up, to shed its light on Scrooge, as he came
peeping round the door.

"Come
in!" exclaimed the Ghost. "Come in, and
know me better, man."

Scrooge entered
timidly, and hung his head before this Spirit. He
was not the dogged Scrooge he had been; and
though the Spirit's eyes were clear and kind, he
did not like to meet them.

"I am the
Ghost of Christmas Present," said the
Spirit. "Look upon me."

Scrooge
reverently did so. It was clothed in one simple
green robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur.
This garment hung so loosely on the figure, that
its capacious breast was bare, as if disdaining
to be warded or concealed by any artifice. Its
feet, observable beneath the ample folds of the
garment, were also bare; and on its head it wore
no other covering than a holly wreath, set here
and there with shining icicles. Its dark brown
curls were long and free; free as its genial
face, its sparkling eye, its open hand, its
cheery voice, its unconstrained demeanour, and
its joyful air. Girded round its middle was an
antique scabbard; but no sword was in it, and the
ancient sheath was eaten up with rust.

"You have
never seen the like of me before!" exclaimed
the Spirit.

"Never,"
Scrooge made answer to it.

"Have
never walked forth with the younger members of my
family; meaning (for I am very young) my elder
brothers born in these later years?" pursued
the Phantom.

"I don't
think I have," said Scrooge. "I am
afraid I have not. Have you had many brothers,
Spirit?"

"More than
eighteen hundred," said the Ghost.

"A
tremendous family to provide for," muttered
Scrooge.

The Ghost of
Christmas Present rose.

"Spirit,"
said Scrooge submissively, "conduct me where
you will. I went forth last night on compulsion,
and I learnt a lesson which is working now.
To-night, if you have aught to teach me, let me
profit by it."

"Touch my
robe."

Scrooge did as
he was told, and held it fast.

Holly,
mistletoe, red berries, ivy, turkeys, geese,
game, poultry, brawn, meat, pigs, sausages,
oysters, pies, puddings, fruit, and punch, all
vanished instantly. So did the room, the fire,
the ruddy glow, the hour of night, and they stood
in the city streets on Christmas morning, where
(for the weather was severe) the people made a
rough, but brisk and not unpleasant kind of
music, in scraping the snow from the pavement in
front of their dwellings, and from the tops of
their houses, whence it was mad delight to the
boys to see it come plumping down into the road
below, and splitting into artificial little
snow-storms.

The house
fronts looked black enough, and the windows
blacker, contrasting with the smooth white sheet
of snow upon the roofs, and with the dirtier snow
upon the ground; which last deposit had been
ploughed up in deep furrows by the heavy wheels
of carts and wagons; furrows that crossed and
recrossed each other hundreds of times where the
great streets branched off, and made intricate
channels, hard to trace in the thick yellow mud
and icy water. The sky was gloomy, and the
shortest streets were choked up with a dingy
mist, half thawed, half frozen, whose heavier
particles descended in shower of sooty atoms, as
if all the chimneys in Great Britain had, by one
consent, caught fire, and were blazing away to
their dear hearts" content. There was
nothing very cheerful in the climate or the town,
and yet was there an air of cheerfulness abroad
that the clearest summer air and brightest summer
sun might have endeavoured to diffuse in vain.

For, the people
who were shovelling away on the housetops were
jovial and full of glee; calling out to one
another from the parapets, and now and then
exchanging a facetious snowball -- better-natured
missile far than many a wordy jest -- laughing
heartily if it went right and not less heartily
if it went wrong. The poulterers' shops were
still half open, and the fruiterers' were radiant
in their glory. There were great, round,
pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the
waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the
doors, and tumbling out into the street in their
apoplectic opulence. There were ruddy,
brown-faced, broad-girthed Spanish Friars, and
winking from their shelves in wanton slyness at
the girls as they went by, and glanced demurely
at the hung-up mistletoe. There were pears and
apples, clustered high in blooming pyramids;
there were bunches of grapes, made, in the
shopkeepers" benevolence to dangle from
conspicuous hooks, that people's mouths might
water gratis as they passed; there were piles of
filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their
fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, and
pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered
leaves; there were Norfolk Biffins, squab and
swarthy, setting off the yellow of the oranges
and lemons, and, in the great compactness of
their juicy persons, urgently entreating and
beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and
eaten after dinner.

The Grocers'!
Oh, the Grocers'! Nearly closed, with perhaps two
shutters down, or one; but through those gaps
such glimpses. It was not alone that the scales
descending on the counter made a merry sound, or
that the twine and roller parted company so
briskly, or that the canisters were rattled up
and down like juggling tricks, or even that the
blended scents of tea and coffee were so grateful
to the nose, or even that the raisins were so
plentiful and rare, the almonds so extremely
white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and
straight, the other spices so delicious, the
candied fruits so caked and spotted with molten
sugar as to make the coldest lookers-on feel
faint and subsequently bilious. Nor was it that
the figs were moist and pulpy, or that the French
plums blushed in modest tartness from their
highly-decorated boxes, or that everything was
good to eat and in its Christmas dress; but the
customers were all so hurried and so eager in the
hopeful promise of the day, that they tumbled up
against each other at the door, clashing their
wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases
upon the counter, and came running back to fetch
them, and committed hundreds of the like
mistakes, in the best humour possible; while the
Grocer and his people were so frank and fresh
that the polished hearts with which they fastened
their aprons behind might have been their own,
worn outside for general inspection, and for
Christmas daws to peck at if they chose.

But soon the
steeples called good people all, to church and
chapel, and away they came, flocking through the
streets in their best clothes, and with their
gayest faces. And at the same time there emerged
from scores of bye-streets, lanes, and nameless
turnings, innumerable people, carrying their
dinners to the bakers' shops. The sight of these
poor revellers appeared to interest the Spirit
very much, for he stood with Scrooge beside him
in a baker's doorway, and taking off the covers
as their bearers passed, sprinkled incense on
their dinners from his torch. And it was a very
uncommon kind of torch, for once or twice when
there were angry words between some
dinner-carriers who had jostled each other, he
shed a few drops of water on them from it, and
their good humour was restored directly. For they
said, it was a shame to quarrel upon Christmas
Day. And so it was. God love it, so it was!

In time the
bells ceased, and the bakers were shut up; and
yet there was a genial shadowing forth of all
these dinners and the progress of their cooking,
in the thawed blotch of wet above each baker's
oven; where the pavement smoked as if its stones
were cooking too.

"Is there
a peculiar flavour in what you sprinkle from your
torch?" asked Scrooge.

"There is.
My own."

"Would it
apply to any kind of dinner on this day?"
asked Scrooge.

"To any
kindly given. To a poor one most."

"Why to a
poor one most?" asked Scrooge.

"Because
it needs it most."

They went on,
invisible, as they had been before, into the
suburbs of the town. It was a remarkable quality
of the Ghost (which Scrooge had observed at the
baker's), that notwithstanding his gigantic size,
he could accommodate himself to any place with
ease; and that he stood beneath a low roof quite
as gracefully and like a supernatural creature,
as it was possible he could have done in any
lofty hall.

And perhaps it
was the pleasure the good Spirit had in showing
off this power of his, or else it was his own
kind, generous, hearty nature, and his sympathy
with all poor men, that led him straight to
Scrooge's clerk's; for there he went, and took
Scrooge with him, holding to his robe; and on the
threshold of the door the Spirit smiled, and
stopped to bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the
sprinkling of his torch. Think of that. Bob had
but fifteen bob a-week himself; he pocketed on
Saturdays but fifteen copies of his Christian
name; and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present
blessed his four-roomed house.

Then up rose
Mrs Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out but
poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in
ribbons, which are cheap and make a goodly show
for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by
Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also
brave in ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit
plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and
getting the corners of his monstrous shirt collar
(Bob's private property, conferred upon his son
and heir in honour of the day) into his mouth,
rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired,
and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable
Parks. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and
girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the
baker's they had smelt the goose, and known it
for their own; and basking in luxurious thoughts
of sage and onion, these young Cratchits danced
about the table, and exalted Master Peter
Cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud,
although his collars nearly choked him) blew the
fire, until the slow potatoes bubbling up,
knocked loudly at the saucepan-lid to be let out
and peeled.

"What has
ever got your precious father then?" said
Mrs Cratchit. "And your brother, Tiny Tim;
And Martha warn't as late last Christmas Day by
half-an-hour."

"Here's
Martha, mother," said a girl, appearing as
she spoke.

"Here's
Martha, mother!" cried the two young
Cratchits. "Hurrah! There's such a goose,
Martha!"

"Why,
bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you
are!" said Mrs Cratchit, kissing her a dozen
times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for
her with officious zeal.

"We'd a
deal of work to finish up last night,"
replied the girl, "and had to clear away
this morning, mother."

"Well.
Never mind so long as you are come," said
Mrs Cratchit. "Sit ye down before the fire,
my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye."

"No, no.
There's father coming," cried the two young
Cratchits, who were everywhere at once.
"Hide, Martha, hide!"

So Martha hid
herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with
at least three feet of comforter exclusive of the
fringe, hanging down before him; and his
threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, to look
seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas
for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had
his limbs supported by an iron frame.

"Why,
where's our Martha?" cried Bob Cratchit,
looking round.

"Not
coming," said Mrs Cratchit.

"Not
coming!" said Bob, with a sudden declension
in his high spirits; for he had been Tim's blood
horse all the way from church, and had come home
rampant. "Not coming upon Christmas
Day?"

Martha didn't
like to see him disappointed, if it were only in
joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the
closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two
young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him
off into the wash-house, that he might hear the
pudding singing in the copper.

"And how
did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs Cratchit,
when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and
Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's
content.

"As good
as gold," said Bob, "and better.
Somehow he gets thoughtful sitting by himself so
much, and thinks the strangest things you ever
heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the
people saw him in the church, because he was a
cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to
remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame
beggars walk, and blind men see."

Bob's voice was
tremulous when he told them this, and trembled
more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing
strong and hearty.

His active
little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back
came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken,
escorted by his brother and sister to his stool
before the fire; and while Bob, turning up his
cuffs -- as if, poor fellow, they were capable of
being made more shabby -- compounded some hot
mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred
it round and round and put it on the hob to
simmer; Master Peter, and the two ubiquitous
young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with
which they soon returned in high procession.

"Now, the
tree is decorated with bright merriment, and
song, and dance, and cheerfulness. And they are
welcome. Innocent and welcome be they ever held,
beneath the branches of the Christmas Tree, which
cast no gloomy shadow!"
-Charles Dickens

So writes Charles
Dickens concerning a tradition that even in his
day was precious. Enjoy his story, "The Christmas Tree," as he recollects the joy it brought to
his youth!

"Who
can be insensible to the outpourings of good
feeling, and the honest interchange of
affectionate attachment, which abound at this
season of the year? A Christmas family-party! We
know nothing in nature more delightful! There
seems a magic in the very name of
Christmas."
-Charles Dickens

The family seated
around the Christmas dinner table is a treasured
time that becomes forever etched in our hearts.
Enjoy Dicken's story, "A Christmas Dinner," as he relates the joys it brings.

"Lost
friend, lost child, lost parent, sister, brother,
husband, wife, we will not so discard you! You
shall hold your cherished places in our Christmas
hearts, and by our Christmas fires; and in the
season of immortal hope, and on the birthday of
immortal mercy, we will shut out Nothing!"-Charles Dickens

In his short
story, "What Christmas Is
As We Grow Older,"
Dickens encourages us to not forget the past joys
and loves we have known, in order to shut out the
pain of loss. Rather, we defeat the loss by
celebrating the memories of times and people once
close to us.

Radio
and Film Versions

Information about the 1951 version with
Alastair Sim, with photos, comparisons to the
novel and excerpts from the soundtrack.

Information about the 1939
radio version produced
by Orson Welles and starring Lionel Barrymore.